Mar. 28, 2013

Paul Daugherty says we will spend the next six months debating the role of Aroldis Chapman. / The Enquirer/Liz Dufour

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On Monday at 4:05, The Famer will tug on the headset, open a fresh scorebook – his 40th -- and pour his bag of pens, pencils, markers and whatnot onto the surface before him. The window to the radio booth will be open and the sounds will pour in, timeless. Teams will have been introduced, jets will have flown over, the Anthem will have been delivered with heartfelt precision. Things will be right in the world, and Marty will offer this:

“If you’re ready now. . .’’

Are we ready?

Who wouldn’t be?

Endless winter, boundless optimism, Aroldis Chapman.

Promises of sun and wins and a healthy Joey Votto. A cold, perspiring beer, a sliver of moon, an argument about Dusty Baker’s lineups. On paper, the best Reds team since the last team to win it all.

Yeah, I’d say we’re ready. Now and for the next seven months.

The older I get, the more I like baseball. I like its constancy. The everyday-ness of it. There’s always another game. If you don’t enjoy it today, come back tomorrow.

There’s a reason the bulk of decent sports literature has been about baseball. Its pace permits reflection. Its pastoral nature encourages it. Linger. Look. Listen. Think. Baseball allows that in a way football (too violent) and basketball (too fast) never will.

The Big 162, as Scott Rolen called it, rewards those who arrive at the office every day with a clear and optimistic head. In that respect, baseball’s wealthy employees are no different from the rest of us. Baseball offers a fresh start, every day for six months. It’s all in how you use it.

Yet baseball offers an all-for-one diversity unmatched in any other sport. On any given day this year, the Reds 25-man roster will include a Korean, a Cuban, two African-Americans, possibly a Venezuelan and several natives of the Dominican Republic. They’re in close quarters – clubhouses, dugouts, airplanes – for 180 days in a row, give or take. They make it work.

I like small moments. They’re the best, no matter the arena. Baseball is made of small moments, strategic and monumental. The gamewinning, three-run homer Joey Votto hits in the bottom of the 9th on a hot August night is a monumental instant. It’s no more vital than the snapshots that precede it, when Votto is working a pitcher, fouling off pitches, going through the mental computations that help make the home run possible.

Baseball can consume you. It doesn’t demand that you be consumed. It is something to do while doing something else. I used to listen to the Reds on the radio while helping my kids with homework. I listen on headphones while cutting the grass or reading. In the stands, baseball is OK with you socializing, wandering the ballpark or simply gazing at the evening. Football yanks you into your seat and makes you pay attention.

It’s possible to feel wrung out after a baseball game. Game 5 at Great American Ball Park last year made you feel that way. But mostly, baseball makes you feel good for having been there. Football leaves you exhausted. It’s the difference between primal and pastoral.

Every sport comes with its own, multiple parts, but because baseball is played 162 times, its smaller parts are more important. Votto injures a knee, Todd Frazier becomes a face of summer. If the Bengals lose Andy Dalton, they’re done.

We will spend the next six months debating the role of Aroldis Chapman, the strength of Votto’s knee, Jay Bruce’s hit-or-miss hitting, Dusty Baker’s lineups and the promotion of Billy Hamilton. We will agree on the unheralded importance of Ryan Hanigan, the fine view of Kentucky from the upper deck, the need for cheaper beer, the depth of the team’s pitching and the civic staunchness of The Big Man.

We will disagree on Baker’s lineups and his in-game strategy and the Scoreboard Stumper and on who should bat fourth. We will argue over the wisdom in making a Deadline deal. We will fret over the possibility of yet another postseason of dashed promise. If the Reds get that far.

I like simple stuff. I enjoy the new technology, too. But I believe all our techno-wizardry has short-circuited our ability just to be. When I prepare for a trip now, I pack more power cords than shirts. Baseball is simple. A radio. A chair, preferably outside. A beer. Famer, Cowboy, Thom and Kelch. An evening.

So, here we go. Six months of ball, the Big 162 ready to unfurl, every game a fresh start, a new mystery, a continuing reason to relax and savor and appreciate the comfort in knowing the game’s about to begin.